Sam pulled out a leg and tentatively bit into it, testing the heat of the spices. The crust was still crispy, the meat underneath tender and juicy. He smacked his lips together, savoring the treat. He was a little disappointed, he had to admit. Despite the warning, the flavors weren’t that spicy after all.
Sam walked over to the bench near the entrance of the room and picked up the book with the bright green cover. His dad had dropped it off for him a couple of days ago.
The frog story in the book was a bit distressing, Sam thought, as he continued to munch on the chicken, but he had assured all of his frog companions that they needn’t worry. He wouldn’t let anything like that happen to them.
As Sam flipped through the pages with his greasy fingers, he thought he heard a slight gurgling sound somewhere in the room. One of the hoses he’d hooked up to the frog tanks must have come loose, he thought. Sam lay the book on the card table and began searching through the tanks, exchanging pleasantries with the frog inhabitants as he checked the tubing.
He paused at the card table to pick out a second leg of chicken. This piece wasn’t nearly as good as the first. There was some sort of strange aftertaste in the crust.
“Probably the spices,” Sam reported to the frogs as he made a sour face.
A small pool of water began to form on the floor of the attic as Sam returned his attention to the tanks. All of the tubing appeared to be functioning properly, but the dripping sound had now increased to a trickling stream. A pool of water seeped out around his feet, soaking the soles of his boots. At this flow rate, the source of the water should be easy to spot. He continued to look through the tanks. Where was the leak?
As Sam passed from tank to tank, he began to notice a flush, feverish feeling on his forehead. He wiped a cold, clammy hand across his face. The plump of his cheeks pulsed with a steamy heat.
The water was rising faster now, threatening to soak his cot and the few personal belongings he had stored in the room. Sam dashed around trying to lift items up off of the floor.
His head started to pound with the drum of an excruciating headache. He’d never known any sickness to come on so fast. He’d take an aspirin, he told himself, as soon as he dealt with the water leak.
The water continued to creep up his legs; the level was now just below his knees. He sloshed through the room, still fruitlessly searching the water lines feeding into the aquarium tanks.
Several of the frogs hopped out of their tanks into the water flooding the attic, splashing joyfully as they swam about the room, their aquatic realm suddenly expanded.
In no time at all, the water rose another foot. Sam glanced down, disbelievingly, at the liquid circling around his waist. He could no longer see his feet—the water had turned green from the amphibian bodies zooming through it, their muscular back legs kicking with the force of a foaming frog frenzy.
The water soaked through his overalls so that the fabric stuck to his skin, increasing its weight. It was becoming difficult to wade through the heavy, pressing liquid.
The card table began to float, the playing cards sliding on its surface. His father’s chair toppled over. Sam watched, panicked, as the feathery orange mustache slid off of the metal seat. He thrust his hands down into the water, trying to catch the floating hairpiece.
The water was cold and frigid against the feverish heat of his skin. His arms and legs flailed about, bumping up against a myriad of swimming frog bodies. The mustache was nowhere to be found.
Struggling, Sam lifted himself up from the water. As his head rose above the surface, he saw a movement in the spired ceiling of the attic. Balanced on top of one of the rafters, the two sides of its long, feathery hairpiece fluttering like wings, sat the missing mustache.
Sam watched, awestruck, as the mustache flew gracefully from one beam to the next. He had never known it to behave in such an odd fashion.
Sam held his hand up above the water, stretching it out as if offering a human perch. The mustache’s hairy wings beat back and forth with contemplation. Sam cooed at the tiny beast, trying to entice it toward him.
He soon regretted the action. As the mustache approached, it sharpened into a hostile arrowlike shape, targeting Sam’s head. Sam ducked down into the water, trying to fend off the attacking creature’s sharp pecks.
As Sam’s head sank beneath the water, the dark liquid grabbed hold of him, pulling him down with forceful icy fingers. Multitudes of green bodies swarmed over his face, blocking his view of the ceiling above. His arms and legs flailed about as he struggled to gain leverage on the slippery floor. Fluid began filling his lungs, constricting his breathing. His body was burning, screaming for oxygen. He had to get back to the surface.
A grim, wrinkled man appeared as if from out of nowhere. The edges of his grisly black hair floated in the water as he stared down at Sam. He wore a ripped-up pair of overalls that were far more frayed, Sam thought, than his own.
The man came at him, arms outstretched, reaching for his face. Sam resisted, but the wiry old man was much stronger than he looked. The man’s fingers clawed at Sam’s mouth, trying to pry it open. Sam knew he couldn’t let that happen; he was holding his breath beneath the water. It was all the air he had left.
But the man could not be stopped. He was relentless in his assault. The skin on his hands was so loose and wrinkly that it slipped beneath Sam’s grasp.
The water pressed down on him, stealing his last seconds. It was over; he was done, slipping from consciousness.
A cool flowery liquid filled Sam’s mouth and sank down his throat. His tense muscles relaxed. His jaw slackened as he savored the rush of air that accompanied the sweet floral taste that, for some strange reason, reminded him of fried chicken.
The next minute, Sam felt a compote of crushed tulip petals being crammed into his mouth. He began to chew, releasing the petal’s fresh, flowery juice.
The strength slowly seeped back into his body, and he sat up on the quickly draining floor. Mystified, he watched as the water rushed through the windows, gushed out over the balcony, and flowed down the gold detailing of the dome.
Looking around the room, he found himself alone. The strange intruder who had nearly strangled him beneath the water was gone.
Chapter 46
THE CAMERA SHOP
ABOUT A WEEK later, Monty and I climbed aboard an orange and white MUNI bus at the corner of Jackson and Battery. After carefully scrutinizing the number and destination listed on the front of the bus and comparing it with a detailed map of the city’s bus routes, I had convinced myself that we were headed for the Castro.
Nervously, I gripped the curved corner of my seat cushion as I watched other patrons enter and exit the bus with a relaxed normalcy I was still unable to muster. I turned my gaze to the window and tried to tamp down the sickening brew of anxiety that was stirring in my stomach.
Monty leaned back in the seat next to me, not the least bit concerned about our rumbling speed or the identity of our driver—I had asked to see his MUNI identification card before boarding.
The bus slowed to an idle at the triangled corner of Market and 17th, waiting for the light to change and release us for the broad, sweeping left-hand turn onto Castro. Monty nudged my shoulder.
“You’ll need to pull the rope to get the next stop,” he said, grinning at my white-knuckled fingers, which were still clamped down on the seat cushion.
Gulping with apprehension, I released my right hand and swung it up to catch the rope that hung beneath my window. A slight buzz registered my signal, and I saw the driver nod toward me in the rearview mirror, acknowledging my request.
Monty used the back of the nearest bench seat to pull himself up as the bus made the wide turn onto Castro. The afternoon sun shone down on the street, the gentle downward slope shielding it from the day’s otherwise brisk breeze.
The bus came to a creaking halt outside of the Castro Movie Theater. The vehicle’s accordion doors unfolded, and Monty bounded out onto the s
idewalk. With my nervous, shaking feet, I followed him as quickly as I could, but Monty had already strutted halfway down the block by the time I was clear of the bus.
I caught up to him at the corner and together we waited for the bus to drive past before crossing the street and entering a small card shop at address number 575.
A Warhol-style mural took up much of one wall. The bright, stylized painting depicted Harvey Milk’s wide, grinning face, positioned so that he was looking out through the card shop’s glass fronting to the street.
A small bell rang as Monty pushed open the door, and we walked inside. A counter at the back of the store was manned by a red-haired, clean-shaven gentleman in a crisp white T-shirt and jeans. He looked up from a newspaper that was spread open across the counter and beamed at us in recognition.
“Hello!” Sam greeted us joyfully, almost unrecognizable in his clean clothes and recently showered state. He stepped around the counter and swung his arms around Monty’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight bear hug.
“Hi, there, Sam,” Monty managed to squeeze out from inside the smothering embrace.
“What do you think of the store?” Sam asked, clearly excited by his new job. “I get to use the cash register and everything.”
“It looks great, Sam,” I said, trying to stay out of bear hug range without seeming standoffish.
Sam thumped his chest and grinned bashfully. “My mom put in a good word for me,” he said sheepishly. “She said this would be a much safer job than City Hall—what with all of its recent flooding.”
Monty and I nodded along. I knew from personal experience that the powerful spider toxin hallucinations were difficult to shake. It seemed easier to let them drift slowly from Sam’s memory than to try to convince him that it had all been a dream.
“Course, I’m just here part-time,” Sam said as he leaned up against the counter. “The rest of the day I spend out with the frogs.”
He picked up the newspaper from the counter and pointed to the lead story. “They wrote all about it in today’s paper. There’s even a quote in here from me!”
I had read the article myself earlier that morning. In the aftermath of the frog invasion of City Hall, the Mayor had been more than eager to support the initiative turning the Sutro Baths ruins into a frog preserve—not the least because this provided a convenient location to relocate the hundreds of thousands of frogs that had taken up residence in the rotunda. Crews were working around the clock to implement the desalination renovations to the seawall. Accommodations for City Hall’s non-native frog species had been hastily prepared in an empty pavilion at Golden Gate Park, which was now destined to become a permanent frog exhibit.
It had taken the better part of the previous week to round up all of City Hall’s amphibian inhabitants. Occasional brown smudges on the rotunda’s pink marble were still being found by the early morning cleaning crew.
The story had been extensively covered by both local and statewide news media—and endlessly mocked by the nation’s late-night comedians. The image of the Mayor’s horrified face as he fled down the steps of City Hall was now deeply embedded in the minds of the state’s potential voters. Seizing the opportunity, several additional contenders had entered the gubernatorial race, including the President of the Board of Supervisors. Most political observers expected the Mayor to announce his withdrawal shortly.
My gaze travelled to the feathery orange mustache that lay on the counter next to the newspaper. Sam picked it up when he saw me staring at it.
“It’s so my dad’s ghost can find me again,” Sam explained. “Since I’m no longer working at City Hall.” He seemed puzzled at my worried expression. “You know, the next time he comes back to visit.”
Chapter 47
NINE LIVES LAST FOREVER
MR. WANG AND I slowly walked along a shaded sidewalk in Redwood Park, passing trunk after soaring trunk until we arrived at a bench near the frog fountain.
I pulled Mr. Wang’s wheeled oxygen tank behind me, carefully maneuvering it so as not to disturb the plastic tubing wrapped around his head. As we sat down on the bench, Mr. Wang closed his eyes and took a deep, fortifying draw from the tank.
From my coat pocket, I pulled out the worn piece of paper with Oscar’s handwriting on it. “So,” I said, hopefully holding out the paper. “Follow the frogs?”
Wang reached out with his bony hand and patted me on the knee. “Amazing little creatures,” he replied with a chuckle. “Frank knew something was up the minute those frogs started showing up at City Hall.” He struggled to clear his throat. “Unfortunately, I had no idea he was hiding in its dome.” His expression turned serious. “We got to Sam and the security guards just in time with the tulip antidote.”
I sighed ruefully. “Monty was convinced we would find Sutro’s missing gold up there.”
The narrow corners of Mr. Wang’s mouth dipped downward. “Well, you did, didn’t you?”
He grinned at my puzzled expression. “For a while after the shootings, Oscar left the remaining gold ingots in their original hiding place inside the merry-go-round’s frog. Then an opportunity came along to put them to a good use—one that the entire city could enjoy. I think old Adolph Sutro would have approved.”
“What was it?” I asked, shaking my head in bewilderment.
“The frogs did their best to show it to you. They took you to the closest possible viewing location.” Mr. Wang’s thin lips smirked. “You were standing right beneath it.”
“The dome!” I said, finally catching on. “It went into the replating of City Hall’s dome?”
Mr. Wang nodded and took another concentrated pull from the oxygen tank. “Anonymous donation, of course.”
Mr. Wang’s bony fingers fiddled absentmindedly with the plastic tubing that fed into his nostrils. “You know, Oscar never got over the Milk and Moscone murders. He always suspected the shootings were part of a greater conspiracy, one that involved Frank Napis.”
Mr. Wang heaved out a rasping sigh. “Frank and Oscar were fellow janitors there at the time. Frank switched shifts with Oscar for the morning of the shooting. Otherwise, it would have been Oscar who caught the Supervisor sneaking in through that window.”
Mr. Wang shrugged. “Oscar never found any concrete proof to back up his suspicions, but when Napis popped up in Jackson Square, Oscar vowed he would keep a closer eye on him this time.” He shook his head sadly. “His surveillance of Frank had seemed like a fairly innocuous obsession—at least until a couple of months ago.”
The water from the fountain surged, and the bronze frogs sparkled in the splash. I couldn’t help but wonder about my uncle, all of his secrets, and the questions that still lingered about his death.
“It’s strange to be with you again,” I said slowly. “After I thought you were dead.”
Mr. Wang’s gray eyes gazed blankly into the pumping water of the fountain.
“I sometimes wonder . . . about Oscar . . . about his death?” I gave him a pleading, questioning look.
Mr. Wang leaned back on the bench and looked skyward, his expression unreadable. “You know, Rebecca, your Uncle had a great fondness for cats. He thought a person could glean a great deal of wisdom and insight from the feline species.”
I laughed. “What does that have to do with . . . ?”
Mr. Wang smiled wryly and tugged on his wispy trail of beard. “Your uncle used to say, if you used them wisely, you could make nine lives last forever.”
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